


A puzzle whose answer need not be spoken

by gracefullyuntitled (liamlisten)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Minor Injuries, Non-Graphic Violence, Passion, Slow Burn, Tommy being overprotective, a lil angsty, a lil smutty, definitely some fluff, i dont really know what else to tag, i just love tommy shelby, unsaid feelings that boil over, you calling him out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23800453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamlisten/pseuds/gracefullyuntitled
Summary: Tommy Shelby/Reader (you)After a shift at the Garrison leaves you injured, Tommy takes care of you. Things escalate from there, in Peaky fashion.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 134





	A puzzle whose answer need not be spoken

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic I've written in soooooo long, so please be gentle with my feelings. I would love to have people comment and we can talk about how hot tommy is! please let me know if i can edit this to make it better, i finished writing it a 2am :]
> 
> im totally willing to expand this, turn it into a longer story, if people are interested!!!!! thank you for reading :)

You couldn't decipher the kind of man Thomas Shelby was.

Puzzles, riddles, codes were meant to be figured out, analyzed and solved. Thomas Shelby inhibited all efforts, not by active rebellion against them, but by the nature of his being. Thomas Shelby, a man who could look down a barrel of a gun with no fear, was also a man who insisted on giving back to his community, his roots. He could swing his arm in a wide arc, meaning to slice an antagonist's skin, and he could gently strike a matchbox to light your cigarette before you even asked. Thomas Shelby was everything the rumors said, merciless, ambitious, and intimidating, and he was everything the rumors could never know: considerate, caring, and loving.

Loving in his own way, of course. Not the kind of person to fawn or overly praise, but the kind of person who expressed affection through actions, through deeds done after his attentive listening to one's conversation. Thomas was everything to a lot of people, you could see that quite plainly. You had only been working at the Garrison for a couple months before you started to get a read on the Shelby family. Thomas was the most difficult to see, but Arthur displayed his troubles to anyone who caught the look on his face after a sharp gulp of whiskey. John kept to himself, too old for a boy so young, too many responsibilities for a boy who never had a childhood. Ada was committed to her own power struggle, forced to be subservient in a world that only recognized women as what they could be to men instead of what they are in reality. Polly cared so much, making up for something she has lost through her consideration of the Peaky's.

You ceased your wonderings, your examinations of the family you knew was in the pub but who had concealed themselves in their room.

"A whiskey, please," a man whose accent exposed his foreignness, grunted, tapping two fingers on the bar counter as you already moved to fill a glass. He slid back ten pence in exchange.

"Liquor is fifty pence, sir," you stated, looking at him in a way that you hoped expressed your sternness but wasn't too confrontational.

"Bloody fucking hell. What kind of place is this? Charging us poor people fifty fucking pence for a glass of watered down whiskey?" The man began to raise his voice.

"I don't make the prices, sir," is all you said in return, hoping the man would acquiesce and pay the difference.

"I'm not paying fifty pence of my hard-earned money on a single fucking glass, cunt," he shouted, slamming the glass on the table so that it shattered across the wood. Your reflexes weren't fast enough to cover your face before shards flew at you and you shut your eyes. You could barely feel anything sharp until warm blood began to run down your cheeks. You brought your hands up to try and stem the bleeding, moaning at the pain which had begun to wave throughout your face.

In your state, you didn't hear the door open from the Shelby's private vestibule, but you did hear a man's voice, calm and low, begin to speak.

"Now, I really don't think you know what kind of bar this is, because if you had, you wouldn't have fucking done that." You didn't register anything besides a faint clicking of a gun and the shuffling sounds of men dragging someone from the bar stool and into the middle of the floor. "If you're not smart enough to know who owns this bar, then you probably shouldn't be going anywhere in Small Heath at all," the same voice rang out. The sounds of grunts and punches and bones cracking and blood splattering filled the bar as you started to realize that your efforts to curb your bleeding had only pushed the shards further into your skin. Feeling deeper tissue start to be cut by the glass, you cried out.

"Fucking Christ, get her out of here," someone, you thought Polly maybe, yelled, before you felt two hands grip your shoulders, pulling you to your feet and then being lifted off the ground. The hands you felt on your body were familiar, the scent of cigarettes and musk and gunpowder filled your nose and despite your eyes being shut, you had a feeling that you knew who was carrying you out of the Garrison.

"Tommy?" You whispered, a slight hesitancy to your guess in case your deductive skills were inhibited by the injuries you'd sustained.

"I'm here," he hummed back, "You'll be okay." Immediately you relaxed, trusting that Tommy would take care of you. You knew that the second you started work at the bar you had been brought under the protection of the Blinders. Besides that, despite all of the terrible deeds you knew Tommy had done, something in your gut told you that he would do anything for you. Although you hadn't known Tommy for long, you had felt a draw towards the man with pale blue eyes and razors sewn into his cap brim.

You couldn't say how long it took to get to Tommy's place, but you knew you had arrived when the arms which had been holding you tight placed you gently down on a couch.

"I'm going to be right back," Tommy grunted, rushing to the kitchen and pulling for the scant first aid kit that Polly had first insisted on after Tommy's gunshot wound.

"I'll be here," you called back gruffly, chuckling a little at your joke before wincing at the sting caused from moving your face, "This really fucking hurts, Tommy."

"If having shards of glass stuck in your face didn't hurt you, I'd be a little more worried than I am right now," Tommy retorted. You could hear that he was coming back into the room, feel him pull a stool up besides you and sit on it. "This is going to feel...bad. But I'll do the best I can. Take a swig of this though."

You reached your hand out blindly, knowing that he would thrust the bottle into it for you. Bringing it to your lips, you chugged what you find out was gin for a couple seconds, enjoying the sanitizing feeling the liquor spread through your insides before giving it back to your employer. Tommy let the alcohol settle in your stomach for a few moments before bringing a pair of tweezers to your face, beginning his work. He held his instrument in his right hand, his left gently grasping your chin to hold you steady.

You could feel the stomach churning pull of tissue when he tugged on individual shards, but you also sensed that any damage done would heal. Your eyes were spared and nothing had sliced too deeply into you.

"Do I wanna know what's happening to that bastard right now?" You asked softly, trying to distract yourself from the discomfort.

"Arthur and John are showing him what the consequences in this town are for being stingy with liquor," he replied. For the first time since the incident, you slowly opened your eyes to Tommy only a couple inches away from you, staring intently at the work he was doing.

"Now stop talking, I want to do this right." Feeling comfortable with silence, you quieted, but still chose to investigate the man who was helping you. Your boss, the gangster, who was currently cradling your face as he gingerly plucked broken glass from your skin. When you had first started your job, you had been warned that Birmingham was a rough place, that the people were used to the muck and grime and fires that polluted the air and which hardened them to life. Looking back, you hadn't even been fearful at this description. You knew how to take care of yourself, and anything was better than the boring village you had come from, where you would have likely been forced to marry a cousin due to the dismal agrarian population. Slowly but surely you could feel your skin becoming lighter, the blood clotting as the glass was removed and placed in an empty whiskey glass on the coffee table. Being so close to a man who was so dangerous thrilled you, being treated so carefully by the same man made your heart beat fast against your chest. He was so close to you that you were sure, certain that he must hear your heartbeat, maybe even feel it. He was gorgeous and mysterious and deep down you had a feeling he was **good**.

"I think I got most of it out, if I missed anything it'll get pushed out anyways as you start to heal," Tommy said, his eyes scanning your face as he set the tweezers down, replacing them with the bottle of gin and taking a significant drink from it. After he finished you did the same, feeling certain that no matter how much spirits you ingested your elevated adrenaline would hinder inebriation. 

"Thank you, Tommy. I can't imagine what would have happened without you there," you replied, looking at him from underneath your lashes. He was stunning, take your breath away caliber, and under his scrutiny you began to wonder how feral you looked. "How bad is it?"

"Well. You'll have some scars, I'm sure. You don't look bad though," Tommy responded. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pushing his sleeves up to his elbow as he had discarded his tailored jacket long ago, and wet it with the liquor. He brought the cloth to your face, dabbing gently along the cuts to sanitize as best he could. It stung, almost worst than the initial pain, but it quickly faded and he placed the diluted blood-stained handkerchief on the table next to the gin. His gruffness alluded to his straightforwardness, his inability to empathize with the insecurities you were feeling just then. _Men_ , you thought. At least you knew he wouldn't lie to you. You brought your hand to your hair, feeling strands of it fallen from the few pins you had haphazardly used for your typical work style. As you did so, you felt his intense stare, and the minuscule space between you seemed to electrify and pulsate. 

"I'm going to have to release you for your employment at the Garrison," Tommy blurted out, breaking the moment. You heard what he said, but blinked a couple times as you processed his words.

"What?!" You exclaimed, pushing yourself up off the back of the couch, only bringing you closer to Tommy's face, "I didn't do anything wrong, that crazy motherfucker did this!"

He took your outburst without flinching, keeping his gaze level despite the proximity between you two.

"I understand. But you got hurt, thankfully not badly, because of your job. What if that guy had been a Sabini, or IRA, instead of some stupid fucking civilian? You would be dead. You're in harm's way and that's not acceptable," Tommy retorted. As he continued talking, his voice got more strained, although still low. 

" **Fuck that!** I need this job, I need money, and you can't – you shouldn't – feel the need to protect me from every fucking possibility of harm in this town. You can't just fire me," you replied. Why did he feel such obligation to you? You couldn't – you wouldn't dare hope that he was trying to protect you from a place of sentimentality. Although you had exchanged small touches, long stares, and short conversations at the Garrison, you knew that he didn't go after women with all of his goals he had for his business. He didn't have time for you, and there was no way he could have noticed you in the way you had him. 

"You would still be on the payroll, but I don't want you in the bar anymore. You can help me with the office, be a fucking secretary or someth–" he started before you interrupted.

"No offense, Tommy, but I'm not going to let you keep me in your fucking jail cell of an office. You're not my husband and I will make my own decisions." The passion you felt for him began to seep into your words, making your body grow restless on the couch. Getting tired of being so close to the man who you knew you could never have, you stood up and hurried to the corner of the room, running your hands through your hair and avoiding your cuts as an afterthought. 

"I know you can make your own decisions. But I can't let you get hurt, I can't even begin –" Tommy responded, getting up from his stool and following you across the floor. 

"You do you care so much, Tommy? What does it matter to you if I get hurt anyways? I'm just one of your employees, a new one at that! I don't fucking matter to you!" You shouted. All of your frustration, the potential of losing your job, the residual pain from the evening, the hurt you felt from feeling Tommy's rough hands on your skin in the only way you will ever experience his touch. You wistfully laughed, realizing that you would probably never be this close to him again; all it took was some drunk asshole to get mad for him to touch you, though it was a cheap alternative to how you really wanted him. You looked up at this man, with eyes that shone like the weapons he used. Your anger faltered, and turned to sadness as you waited for him to respond. 

He stood there, no more than a foot away from you, his lips still and his jaw flexing underneath his taut skin. Nothing. You stared at him for another second, willing him to say anything. Nothing. 

The pain of looking at the man you loved who obviously didn't love you back became too great. You tore your eyes away from his, led the towards the floor, and sighed. 

"Thanks for pulling the fucking glass out of my face," you murmured, brushing past him and heading towards the door. Feeling a slight draft coming from outside, you realized your coat was still at the Garrison, with your apartment keys in the inside pocket, that had been left in the hurry to help you. _Great_ , you thought. After everything tonight, you also get to walk home in the cold without anything covering you. 

Just as you turned the door knob, lightly pushing outwards on the worn wood, Tommy cleared his throat. 

"You don't really believe that, do you?" 

You halted opening the door, but still kept your back to the man who spoke. "Believe what, Tommy."

"That I don't matter to you." At this, you turned your head to glance at him over your shoulder. He was in the same spot, but had turned to you. 

"I mean –" you started, not sure what to say and scared to hear what would come next.

"Because that's the biggest pile of shit I've ever heard in my fucking life. I care for you, I care for you too much. I am the most feared man in Northern England, and the thing I fear most is seeing you – seeing you harmed because of me... Tonight you got lucky, but you still got hurt. You are fragile, so fucking fragile, and all it took was one random drunkard to tear up your face," his words spilled out of him, in a rare sacrifice of his usual brevity. His eyes were wild, his hands moving through the air frantically in between pulling through his hair. What he was saying, the words which you were terrified to believe were true, seemed to blur together. His words almost didn't matter. You saw how much he cared, how scared he was at you leaving in the tenseness of his body, in his fingers fidgeting as if moving towards a cigarette with a mind of their own. 

You knew Thomas Shelby had braved some unimaginable terrors in his life, but this was by far the most you had ever seen him flustered. Thomas Shelby always used his words economically, always saved his true intentions to be displayed through action. 

"Please, please don't get my hopes up, Tommy. You must know, surely you must see how I feel about you," you whispered. Although you were separated across the room, you knew he could hear you in the deafening silence. You stared at each other, both searching for the validation in what you believed you were hearing, before both going into motion at precisely the same time, traversing across the floor to each other faster than you thought possible. When he reached you, Tommy pulled you into his chest hard, moving his hands up from your arms and to the side of your head, bringing your lips to his in a feverish touch. 

You felt his lips on yours, his body up against you, almost certain that this was a hallucination from poorly distilled liquor, but then you sighed, falling into his embrace and opening your mouth up to feel as much of him as you could. He responded in kind, tongues coming together and lips moving languidly as though both of you were cherishing this moment, lost in the realization that your feelings could be realized. A haze fell on your mind, Tommy becoming the beginning and ending of all your thoughts as he pushed you towards the couch, turning around so that he could fall back on the cushions and you could settle on his lap. Friction become pleasure, hot and necessary and everything, as the space between the two of you vanished like a wisp into the air. You could **feel** him harden underneath you, the sensation sending you into a frenzy. Your hands roamed his chest, undoing the buttons on his vest as he moved his hands up, down your back, and along your breasts, each time getting closer and closer to lifting up your skirt. 

It was only when he started to kiss away from your mouth, to your cheek and aiming for your neck, that you remembered your wounds and the cuts that were still frustratingly fresh. You winced, and he was reminded as well. 

"Ah, **fuck.** **Fuck.** I'm so sorry, your face –" he stammered, pulling away and bringing his fingertips to lightly skirt along your cheekbone. 

"It's okay. They just sting a little bit," you breathed. Tommy stared up at you with the purest sheen of adoration in his eyes, and you felt your cheeks warm, a smile becoming too difficult to conceal spreading on your lips. You sat back on his lap, burrowing your face into the crook of his neck to let your flush subside as he pulled you even closer. 

You stayed like that for what felt like forever, both basking in the knowledge of requited love, before he lifted you up off his lap and began walking towards the staircase. You ran your finger along his chest in circles as he stepped up the stairs, opening the door to his room and setting you down on his bed. He unbuttoned your top, starting at the top and moving down, pulling it off your shoulders to expose your slip. You stood up to step out of your skirt, toeing off your shoes, as he unfastened your garter from your stockings, deftly slipping both of them off. You began to work on his shirt, taking it off as he pulled the pins from your hair. You felt it fall down your back, causing you to shiver from being so exposed. You bent down to tug his trousers from his hips, level with his cock that was keenly tenting his underwear. Tommy untied his brogues, taking his remaining outer clothing off. You examined him, the man who you love, seeing the scars which littered his skin, the stark tattoos and the lean muscle making you question again if this was real. His fingers touched lightly underneath your chin, inviting you to look up at him, snapping your dreaming as you gazed into his eyes, the eyes of the man you love, looking down at you with all the answers to all the questions you could possibly ask right now. 

You brought your lips to his, softly this time compared to the last, slowing shutting your eyes, reveling in the feeling of him. His chest, his hands, his lips, his tongue, all served to insist that this was real, that you were with Tommy Shelby. He pulled back, slipping his hand from your tender cheek, grazing all along your arm and grasping your hand, tugging you towards his bed. He laid down and you folded yourself up into his chest, his arms holding you close. The stress of the night, the pain and the elation, suddenly bore down on you, sinking into your bones and pressing you into his mattress as sleep began to tug your eyelids closed. You hadn't realized how exhausted you were, and you inwardly thanked Tommy for bringing you up to bed. You felt his lips press against the top of your head, the pressure staying there, while his fingers twiddled with the straps of your undergarments. 

"Please get some sleep, my love," the words of endearment seemed almost foreign to you as you breathed them out, breaking the stillness of the night. 

"I have a feeling I'll sleep well tonight," Tommy replied, his voice even more crackly than usual. You smiled to yourself, having never believed you would ever fall asleep with the Tommy Shelby, the man of enigmas who somehow straddled the plethora of very fine lines he so loved to toe. As you felt yourself more and more pulled into sleep, the cadence of Tommy's breaths and heartbeat lulling you so, you heard the front door open, the rest of the Shelby clan noisily shuffling into the house. 

"Fucking idiots," Tommy cursed, causing you to chuckle. You knew the group had at the very least beat the man from the bar badly in retaliation for the shattered glass, and while before you may have protested the use of violence, being around the Shelby family had shown you that sometimes this world necessitates such a response. And with Tommy Shelby's arms around you, you didn't really feel the need to object to anything at all. 


End file.
